The Valeditztorian (14 page)

Part Two

New York

Chapter Eight

Broken Resolutions

As my plane soars through the atmosphere between Rio and New York, it occurs to me that spending time in a foreign place can sharpen one’s perspective and improve self-awareness. This phenomenon has already redirected my outlook. Prior to traveling to South America, my future plans were vague and uncertain, but no longer. While I reflect upon the past month in Salvador, my immediate and long-term goals crystallize like ice on the wings of a jet plane, solidifying into six “New York” resolutions.

Listed in
order of perceived difficulty (from least to most), upon returning home I vow to do the following:

1. Eat
and enjoy fresh produce every day.

2. Appreciate access to decent
health care.

3. Finish medical school.

4. Stand up to abusive colleagues and/or significant others (leave Thomas).

5
. Reestablish and maintain close relationships with family members (work things out with Mom).

6.
Become a competent dancer.

After landing
at La Guardia, I grab my suitcase from baggage claim and walk, with trepidation, to the next required stop. Entering customs, I try to appear nonchalant, but internally I’m sweating. God forbid the fungus stowed in my backpack sets off drug trafficking alarms or causes scary-looking dogs to start foaming at the mouth. I don’t want to be detained, or worse yet, mauled by some crazy Cujo. In case I am stopped, Alvin has written a letter of medical necessity for the customs officials, but I hope it doesn’t come to that. Even with the letter, I’m pretty sure that Brazilian foliage covered in strange-looking mushrooms will cause a stir if investigated.

Arriving at the counter, I’
m happy to find that only humans are working.

Please,
Mr. Customs man, ignore me. I’m not dangerous. I’m insignificant. I’m….

“Next!” shouts
the overweight, bald, bored-looking processor.

Briefly g
lancing at my passport and customs declaration, the man—who bears a strong resemblance to the Pillsbury Doughboy—is apparently half-asleep.

“Next!”
he yells again, without even raising an eyelash.

W
hat an idiot. What a relief!   

Arriving at the taxi stand
several minutes later, I’m still shaking my head and chuckling to myself. Though I probably look like a schizophrenic, an Indian driver wearing a white turban similar to Lucineige’s is kind enough to offer me a ride. After he throws my suitcase into the trunk, the two of us zoom off toward the city.

Like other cab drivers with whom I’ve had the pleasure to ride, this one
—“Mohammed Zumabi,” according to his name plate—treats the New York highways like the Indy 500, flooring the gas pedal and weaving around cars like a complete maniac.

“
Hey, Mohammed, I’m really in no rush,” I shout from the back, digging my white-knuckled, sweaty hands into the vinyl seats.

I hope my fingernails won’
t rip through the material.

“No problem,” says Mohammed
, who ignores me and continues driving like he’s outrunning a tornado.

When we finally arrive
on the Upper East Side, I’m thrilled to be alive, stationary, and back on solid asphalt. After taking a few deep breaths and giving my stomach a moment to settle, I swing by the deli next to my building. Sticking with resolution number one, I sink my teeth into a perfect red apple, savoring the juicy sweetness of every bite. One final elevator ride to the twenty-fifth floor of Laydon Hall, and I’m home.

Up
on entering my apartment, I find Helen, my beautiful, dark-haired roommate, sitting at the kitchen table, flipping through a fashion magazine.

“Oh, you’re home
early,” she says, looking over her shoulder. “Too bad. I was hoping you’d stay in Brazil…permanently.”

I try not to take this too personally
. Other than my parents, no one knows me better than Helen. My closest friend since childhood, Helen and I have been roommates since college—longer still if you count high school. A few months before I left home to live with my aunt, Helen actually moved in with my family. I’ll never forget the day she showed up, looking for help.

“Emma,” my m
om called from the kitchen. “Is someone at the door? I thought I heard knocking.”

“Can you get
it?” I shouted from my room. “I’m busy with my trig homework.”

“
Honey, I’m up to my elbows in tuna casserole. Just do me a favor…peek out the window—the bedroom window, mind you—and see who’s there. If it’s those Jehovah’s witnesses again, just pretend we’re not home.”

“Okay
.” Peering through the glass, I yelled, “It’s Helen, and she looks upset. I’ll let her in.”

“What’s she doing here at this hour?”
asked my mom.

“I have no idea
.”

Dashing downstairs,
I opened the front door and pulled Helen inside. In the bright lights of our entryway, it was easy to see that she’d been crying.

“Hey, Helen,” I said
. “What’s the matter?”

“I hate m
y father,” she replied.

Wiping her hands on a dish towel, my mother strode down the hallway, wrapped one arm protect
ively around Helen’s shoulders, and directed her straight into the kitchen.

“Let me get you some tea,
Helen, and then you can tell us the whole story. This is good timing, since I just put the water up a few minutes ago. Are you alright?”

“
Yeah, I’m okay.”

“What happened?” I asked impatiently.

“Actually, it’s a little embarrassing.”

“Since when do we talk
about anything that’s not embarrassing?” said my mom, while fussing with mugs and tea bags.

“Good point,”
Helen answered.

Unable to speak candidly with her own parents, Helen was always consulting my liberal-minded mother on sensitive matters.

“Did you walk all the way from home?” I asked.

“The whole two miles,” she said.

“Did something happen with Brian?”

“How’d you guess
?”

Brian was Helen’s latest boyfriend, the most s
erious one she’d had thus far.

“Would you like some sugar in your tea, He
len?” asked my mom.

S
tanding next to the stove, she poured steaming water from the teapot into a mug.

“No
, thanks.”

“Milk?”

“I’ll take it black,” said Helen.

“If you say so
. Just be careful not to burn yourself. The water’s still pretty hot.”

Helen took the mug from my mother and lowered it
onto the table without drinking anything. The two of us then seated ourselves across from her, waiting expectantly. With my dad out tempting fate on the motorcycle, we girls had the house to ourselves.

“So what happened?” I asked again.

“My d
ad found out that Brian and I had sex.”

“Oh, no
,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” Helen respond
ed.

Helen’s d
ad was an extremely conservative, arch-Republican with no tolerance for teenage sexuality, especially not in his own daughter. “Abstinence or nothing” had always been his motto.

“How did he find out?” my mother asked.

“Brian threw a used condom into the trash, right next to my dad’s workbench in the basement, and of course he noticed it.”

“At least yo
u’re using prophylactics,” said my mother. “That’s a smart choice.”

“My
father didn’t see it that way,” said Helen.

“What’d
he do?” I asked.

“Well, after cursing and punching a hole into our basement wall, he pulled out a copy of the Bible.”

“I hope he didn’t hurt his hand,” said my mom.

“The Bible?” I asked.

“Yeah. He said, ‘Helen, you’re going to burn in hell for having premarital sex!’”

She shook
her finger at us to demonstrate.

“‘
And here’s where it says so.’ Then he read me some awful, scary passage from the Bible.”

My m
om raised her eyebrows skeptically.

“And who do you think wrote the Bible?”

“Huh?” asked Helen.

“Who wrote the Bible—God or man?”

“Umm, man?” said Helen.

“Right,” my mom replied
. “Some man wrote down all of those stories a long time ago. And here’s the critical part, Helen. As with any religious document, taken out of context, the words in the Bible can be twisted by other men, and used for manipulative purposes.”

“
That’s true!” I said. “You’re always doing that to me with the Ten Commandments.”

“What?” asked my mother.

“Yeah, like last week, when I wanted to go to the movies, but the house was a huge mess, and you said, ‘First you need to honor your father and mother by cleaning up.’”  

“
Ha, ha, Emma,” said my mom. “Helen, I want you to realize that your father is being ridiculous. You’re sixteen-years-old, which is practically an adult. If you want to have sex, it’s your choice. Your father ought to be proud of you for having safe sex.”

“How old were you when you f
irst had sex?” I asked my mother.

“That is
none of your business, Emma. And keep in mind, Helen, that the whole ‘burn in hell’ threat is just a scare tactic. Did you know that in Judaism, hell doesn’t exist? The Torah doesn’t even mention an afterlife.”

“Really?”
I said.

“Y
up. According to the Old Testament, when Jewish people die, they’re dead, and that’s it, which shifts the focus of existence to the here and now—to life on earth…this life.”

“Then why be nice to anyone?”
Helen asked.

“Good question,” I said
. “Being nice all the time is so annoying.”

“
Judaism teaches people to treat one another with kindness because it’s the right thing to do from a moral standpoint, not because it’s necessary to avoid eternal damnation. On the other hand, getting to heaven isn’t particularly likely, either,” said my mother.

“What about the Messiah
…and resurrection?” I asked.

My mother sighed.

“Religious Jews believe that when the Messiah comes along, all of the good Jewish people will be resurrected into the afterlife.”

“But you don’
t agree with that,” I said.

“No
, I don’t. When it comes to theories about the afterlife, everything is pure supposition. Since dead people can’t talk, it’s easy to make up any old story about what happens after death, with no threat of repercussions. Emma, please don’t repeat this to Rabbi Gerber, but if you ask me, the whole resurrection promise is just another fairy tale.”

“
She hates fairy tales,” I said to Helen.

“
We’re digressing here,” said my mom, “but she’s right. I can’t understand why parents purposefully lie to their children, setting them up for confusion and disappointment. But don’t get me started on princesses and fairy tales,” she said, holding up her palm.

“That’
s why I never believed in the tooth fairy,” I explained to Helen.

“
I try to live an honest life,” said my mom, “which means I could never lie to you, Emma, even about childhood stories that seem relatively innocuous.”

“
Mrs. S., when all the ‘good’ Jewish people get resurrected, what happens to the bad people?” asked Helen.

“
My understanding is that at the time of resurrection, the bad eggs just stay dead, but they don’t go to hell,” said my mom.

“
In that case, I should probably convert, before my father kills me,” said Helen dryly.

“Don’t do it,” I said
. “Then you’d have to deal with the whole Jewish guilt problem.”

“Believe me, Emma,” said my m
other, “fanatics like Helen’s father have their own guilt complexes.”

“Yeah,” said Helen, “and the guilt is all about sex.”

“Unfortunately, Helen, there’s a lot of truth in that statement. But wanting to have sex as a teenager is normal, not something that’s evil, or dirty. Biology is biology—and biologically speaking, all human beings have sexual desires. If they didn’t, the human race would be in big trouble.”

“
Don’t forget about the whole ‘sex if beautiful’ thing,” I said. Turning to Helen, I added, “She’s always going on about that.”